


Maryden's Collected Works

by EradiKate



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Cullen was a weird kid, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, In-Character Narration, Innuendo, Multi, Nugs, Pre-Relationship, Varric Tethras' Nicknames, suggested Sebastian/Bethany
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:49:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 13,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EradiKate/pseuds/EradiKate
Summary: Short stories and prompt fills from across Thedas, all part of my little headcanon.  Expect many pairings, lots of fluff, humor, and general weirdness.





	1. Living Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen meets a strange figure from his past.

“There used to be a statue here,” Cullen remarked.  “My sister tried to tell me scary stories about it, but I never paid much attention to them and would play in the square to annoy her.  I suppose in a way, I was trying to show off.  But it’s odd that the statue is gone.”

Katrin slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.  “Why don’t we take a walk around the village?  I’d like to know more stories of you as a boy.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck.  “Are you sure?  Most of them are quite boring, unless you ask my sister.”  His wife looked up at him with pleading eyes, and he laughed.  “All right then, my love.  I’ll show you the Chantry where I first started to bother the Templars.”

The air was crisp, and the newlyweds took it upon themselves to enjoy the fall day as much as possible.  After hours of wandering, they found themselves back in the village square, enjoying a picnic lunch of apples, cheese, and bread.

Suddenly, Katrin grew still.  “Cullen,” she began, her voice low, “something is coming our way.  Didn’t you say Honnleath was mostly abandoned during the Blight?”

“It was.”  He peered in the direction his wife had focused and was surprised to see a bulky shape even larger than a Qunari approaching.  “I don’t think that’s a local.”

His slight bemusement turned to bewilderment when he saw that it was no Qunari, or even a bear.  It was…stone?  And familiar stone, too, though he was sure it had not had glowing red crystals on its shoulders when he last had seen it.

Even more surprising, the stone seemed to recognize him, and stopped short within speaking distance.

“It is…larger.”

Cullen was too shocked for words.  Katrin, ever the diplomatic one, rose to her feet and tugged on Cullen’s arm to do the same.  “Good day, ser.”

“It does not speak?  It chattered endlessly when it was small.”  A gravelly noise was heard, which Cullen later understood to be laughter.  “Just like the filthy pests it would feed, it would prattle for hours with just as little purpose.  I suppose I should be grateful it did not shit upon me as its precious birds did.”

He realized his jaw was hanging open, and did his best to muster his dignity, though he had a sinking feeling it was a lost cause.  “I beg your pardon, Master…I, ah, don’t believe I know your name.” 

“It is Shale.”

“Master Shale, then.  I beg your pardon, I had no idea you were…aware.”

“Mistress.”  At Cullen’s blank expression, the stone seemed to sigh in disgust.  “It is Mistress Shale.  I was a she-dwarf, when I was mortal.”

“Mistress Shale, then.  Forgive me.”

“It is of little importance.  Much like it.  Curly-headed and fond of birds.”

Without further explanation, the statue stomped her way through the green and disappeared from sight.  Once he was quite sure she was out of earshot, he turned to his wife.  “Well.  I have been mocked by a Qunari, elves of all origin, an assortment of dwarves, and now a living statue.  Varric will want to hear this, I am sure.”

And then Cullen and his wife collapsed into laughter.


	2. Wet Boots, Warm Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian finds his footing with the Inquisition.

The Storm Coast was lovely, what with the evergreens, rocky shores, and crashing waves.  Quite peaceful, too.

 

So Dorian had been told, anyway.  Had anyone asked his opinion on that particularly foggy afternoon, his description would have been somewhat different.  “Gloomy” was the word that sprang to mind. Not that he minded too much. After all, he was in the company of his closest friend, the world’s best storyteller, and someone he was beginning to care a great deal for.

 

However much he might like and respect the Inquisitor, he had to admit that she was rather single-minded in pursuit of her goals.  Having caught wind of rumors of red lyrium, Katrin Trevelyan had left Leliana in charge of affairs at Skyhold and trekked out to see to the problem personally.  Admirable, really, but it didn’t change the fact that Dorian’s boots hadn’t been properly dry in a week and that everything in his tent smelled of wet horse.

 

Worse yet, another thundercloud was fast approaching.

 

“Boss,” the Iron Bull grumbled, “is there any chance we could find sturdier shelter tonight?  This rain may not bother you but I don’t want to listen to Cassandra complain if we accidentally drown her dwarf.”

 

“Watch it, Tiny,” Varric replied.  “But really, your Inquisitorialness, another night in a tent means another night without working on that thing I promised you.”

 

“Hmm?”  Katrin was fingering a shard she’d picked up earlier in the day, her expression distant.  “Oh, yes. There’s a cave half a mile ahead. We can’t have a fire there but being out of the rain and wind would do us all good.”

 

“And you need to work on potions?” Dorian asked, unable to help himself.

 

“And she needs to work on potions.  Sparkles, she hasn’t stirred something up in three days.  Our poor friend must be out of her mind.”

 

Katrin grinned somewhat guiltily.  “I notice none of you mind my alchemical messes when you need healing on the battlefield.  Come on, it’s not far at all.”

 

Another half mile was nothing next to the prospect of dry socks.  Dorian shouldered his pack and fell into line behind Bull, who despite the rain remained shirtless.  And Dorian didn’t mind that one bit. He could adapt to this sort of life if it meant eyeing up a well-muscled man.

 

Forty-five minutes later, Katrin and Varric were bickering about what half a mile meant.  Though no one was in any danger of receiving a dagger to the ribs or a crossbow bolt in the eye, he was grateful when they reached the promised cave and could finally, finally set down their burdens.  Katrin immediately whisked out flasks and alchemical globes, Varric unwrapped his precious parchment and ink, and Bull, after laying his bedroll flat to dry, went back outside to keep watch.

 

Dorian, despite the damp and the sharp smell of blood lotus, could not keep the smile from his face.  Tevinter may have been his home, but in the Inquisition he had found his family.

 

“Hey, Sparkles!  It’s your turn to cook!”


	3. Right of Conscription

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall makes a decision.

It was a gray afternoon of the kind so common in late fall.  A few brown leaves clung stubbornly to the trees, the wind moaned through the hills, and what little sunlight struggled through the clouds seemed watery and weak.  Thom Rainier felt as lifeless as the wilderness around him. For some reason, he continued onward, heading deeper into Ferelden. He knew it was pointless. No matter how far he walked, no matter what armor he wore, he was a murderer and there was no redemption for him.

 

The maps he had salvaged from Warden Blackwall indicated that a small farming village lay ten miles to the east, and he adjusted his path southward accordingly.  He had no desire to speak to anyone, even in passing. He tugged at his beard absently, took a swig from his conscription bottle, and resigned himself to another day breaking through brush.

 

By early evening, he was ready to make camp for the night.  He could see trees thinning to the north, and changed course again.  But before he could reach the clearing, he heard jeering laughter and a high-pitched, keening cry.

 

Thom nearly turned away.  His shoulders were set, his feet ready to carry him along, but then he heard a sharp crack and a broken sob.  Damned as he may have been, he could not leave that poor soul behind.

 

It was a teenage girl, her face bloodied and one eye swelled shut, but her arms spread wide in protection and defiance.  Behind her cowered several nanny goats. Before her stood two roughly-armored men, both carrying swords.

 

“Give them up, girl,” one growled.  “We’ll be needing those goats, but we don’t need you.”

 

Thom drew his sword.  “She’ll not be further harmed today.”

 

One of the men half turned to face him.  “Well, well. A Grey Warden.” He mockingly touched his cap.  “This need not concern you. I’ve a sword in one hand and a coin in the other.  Which will it be?”

 

He thought fast.  “Neither. As Grey Warden, I’m invoking the right of conscription.  This girl will come with me, and you’ll go on your way. Her family will keep the goats, and you’ll keep your lives.”

 

It almost worked, and for the space of a breath Thom saw doubt on one outlaw’s face.  But the other’s eyes gleamed with greed and he lunged clumsily toward Thom. Emboldened by his compatriot’s move, the first outlaw followed suit.

 

“Get clear!” he snapped at the girl, then moved to block the first blow with his shield.  The second he parried with his sword, sending one outlaw spinning into the other. Thom fell back into old habits quickly, the training of a chevalier of Orlais more than a match for two crude opportunists. 

 

He’d hardly needed to exert himself.  Within minutes, both men lay dead by his hand.  More out of practicality than any sort of need, he rifled through their pockets and packs, keeping for himself a loaf of hard bread and some salted meat.  The few coins he found he wrapped in a small piece of burlap.

 

“It’s safe,” he called.  “I’ll escort you back to your farm, miss.”

 

The girl stepped gingerly out from behind a tree, her hands shaking as she tried to gentle a nervous goat.  “Are you really a Grey Warden?” she asked, her one good eye narrow. “Have you come to help the Herald? She druv off most of the bandits, but I guess some of them escaped.”  Her voice trembled.

 

“The Herald?”  Thom didn’t know what the girl meant.

 

“Been fighting darkspawn in the Deep Roads, eh?”  She assessed him even more carefully. “The Herald of Andraste.  They say she stepped out of the Fade to save us all from the demons.  My da says not even Andraste herself can save us now, that the Herald needs all the help she can get.  My brother’s off fighting for her.”

 

This scrap of a girl shamed him.  She was willing to fight a hopeless cause without a weapon, while he, Thom Rainier of the Orlesian army, ran away from his own guilt.  He could at least answer her wish.

 

“Yes.  I am Warden Blackwall, and I’m on my way to her.  But first, I’ll see you safely home.”


	4. Sweet Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party misses desserts. Yeah. Desserts. Definitely that, and not something else.

“My love, what are you dreaming of?”  Alistair twined his fingers through Anna’s hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.  “You’re so far off, you may as well be camped in Tevinter.”

 

Anna lifted her head and smiled at her fellow Grey Warden and lover.  “Promise you won’t laugh at me?”

 

“Would I ever do such a thing?”  His voice was a shade too innocent, and Anna narrowed her eyes at him.  

 

“In a heartbeat.”  Turning her gaze back to the fire, she blushed a rather brilliant shade of pink.

 

“If you’re remembering last night, I would be happy to supply the real thing,” Alistair suggested, cupping her cheek gently.  “I have fond memories of it, myself.”

 

From his spot across the fire pit, Zevran whistled.  “I admit I have been wanting to offer my congratulations all day.  You have fine taste, Alistair.”

 

Anna’s face dropped into her hands and she muffled a sigh.  “Maker’s breath! I was thinking of custard!”

 

“Certainly you were,” Morrigan interjected.  “Goodness knows a boy like Alistair could not inspire such featherwittedness.”

 

Leliana had to offer her opinion as well.  “I am sure Alistair’s performance left nothing to be desired.  However, I do miss custard, myself, though not as much as I would love some marchpane.”

 

Zevran nodded wisely.  “It has been far too long since I tasted anything sweet.  Lady Wynne, what of you?”

 

“I believe I will leave the thinly-veiled talk of desserts to you younger folk,” the healer replied dryly, and buried herself in her book.

 

Unperturbed, Zevran turned to Morrigan.  “And you, lovely witch?”

 

She licked her lips slowly.  “I have never been one for sweets.”

 

Alistair seemed to have recovered himself.  “You know, that doesn’t do much to disprove my ‘Morrigan eats men alive’ hypothesis.”

 

“I do not believe I would mind such a fate.”  Zevran hummed thoughtfully. “Dying while making love would be a very Antivan way to go.”

 

“Bet she plays with her food, too.”  Alistair waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

 

“I should be so lucky as to find out,” Zevran mused.  “But enough of that. In Antiva there is a delight known as tiramisu.  Pastry and mascarpone and espresso. You Fereldans know nothing of cuisine, with perhaps your exception, dear Sister.”

 

Anna finally found her voice.  “I regret saying anything at all.  I’m going to bed.”

 

As she crawled into her tent, she heard Sten finally speak.  “Tell me more about custard.”


	5. The Kiss That Wasn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte Hawke is hopeless, has a hangover, and runs into the object of her affections.

Charlotte woke with a dry mouth and a pounding headache.  Regardless of her hangover, she had business to discuss with Varric and so she sat up.  She instantly regretted that decision. Why she’d split that second and then third bottle with Fenris, she really didn’t know.

 

Then she remembered the tug of his eyes on her lips and the sweet drag of his body near hers.  You absolutely do know, she taunted herself. You’re falling for Fenris. But you’re fooling yourself.  No man will look at you when Isabela’s around. And Isabela’s always around Fenris.

 

She washed her face and dressed for the day.  The red tunic, the dark chausses, the well-worn boots.  Pointedly ignoring the spot on the banister where Isabela had carved a rude word, she made her way downstairs, where she picked at her breakfast with a fierce scowl.  So black was her mood that even Bodahn’s cheer soured before the meal was through.

 

The necessities dealt with, she tucked a knife into her boot, armored up quickly, and began the brisk walk to the Hanged Man.  No sooner had she stepped outside than Anders accosted her, ready to piss and moan about Templars and Circles. Normally she’d grouse right along with him, but she was in no state to open her mouth.  She was too afraid she’d lose what little toast she’d managed to eat.

 

Anders didn’t notice, luckily enough, so the walk passed in relative peace.

 

She’d hoped that Isabela would still be asleep when they reached the pub, but she was disappointed.  The pirate leaned on the counter, displaying her full breasts to maximum effect. Charlotte sensed rather than saw Anders swallow thickly.

 

And Isabela, of course, noticed Charlotte’s foul demeanor immediately.  “What’s wrong, love? Did that red-headed giant stand you up again? I’ve been trying to convince Aveline she won’t do any better than you, but she seems unwilling to listen to me.”

 

Charlotte gathered the few scraps of her self-worth and smiled falsely.  “I can’t imagine why. It’s not as if you’ve insulted her at every opportunity.  Excuse me, I have business with Varric.”

 

“You’ll have to wait, princess.  That delightfully broody elf is up with him, probably getting worked over for Varric’s next story.  I’d much rather work him over differently, if you catch my meaning.” Isabela let loose a throaty laugh and dragged a finger down Anders’ arm.

 

Anders turned beet red and mumbled something about needing air before bolting outside.  Charlotte thought she would vomit on the spot, but managed to murmur something noncommittal and likely inane.  Tossing her head, she headed upstairs to Varric’s suite anyway. She paused on the landing and nearly jumped out of her skin when the door opened.

 

“Hawke,” Fenris greeted her, cool as a cucumber.  “I did not expect to see you so early this morning.  I...enjoyed your company last night.”

“I always enjoy listening to you, Fenris,” Charlotte blurted, then blushed painfully.

 

“You said as much after your last glass of wine.  Are you all right, Hawke?” There it was again, his gaze on her mouth, that delicious gravity only he seemed to put out, Andraste’s holy knickers she needed to get a hold of herself.

 

“I’m fine, Fenris.  Really.”

 

“I thought I should tell you again, because you may not remember--there are few pleasures greater than speaking to a beautiful woman.  I look forward to your next visit, Hawke.” Charlotte was sure she was dreaming, because she thought she saw him smile before he started down the stairs.  Suddenly her hangover didn’t seem so awful. With that smile in mind, she floated into the suite and sat down in her usual chair.

 

“You know,” Varric began conversationally, “he almost seems cheerful when he’s talking to you.”

 

“Eavesdropper,” Charlotte grumbled.  

 

“I think he likes you, Hawke.”

 

“Busybody.”

 

“Isabela doesn’t stand a chance.”

 

“You think so?”

 

“A-ha!” Varric crowed.  “I knew it!”

 

Charlotte chose that moment to lean forward and finally throw up her protesting breakfast.  Right on Varric’s boots.


	6. Something Lost, Something Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrin and Cullen share a quiet moment. Pre-relationship fluff.

“Josephine, did I drop a handkerchief in here earlier?”  Katrin stuck her head into the ambassador’s office, her voice slightly thick and her nose red.  

 

Josephine looked up from the stack of letters on her desk.  “I had not noticed one, Herald. Are you sure you did not misplace it elsewhere?”  Her tone turned wry. “I suppose this explains your behavior in the war room.”

 

“I’m certain I had one before the war council meeting, and when I needed to sneeze in there I just could not find it.  Even I’m not so uncouth as to simply use my sleeve.” Katrin sniffled and attempted to subtly use said sleeve, at which the ambassador rolled her eyes.

 

“You could carry your reticule, which would solve this problem.”

 

“Josie, we both know I’d just lose the reticule twice as quickly.”  She sneezed into her elbow. “Excuse me.”

 

“Oh, for Maker’s sake, Herald, go get some rest.  We cannot have you looking run down when the comte visits.”  With that slight rebuke, Josephine returned her attention to her correspondence.

 

There weren’t many spots a handkerchief could hide in a place like Haven.  After combing the main hall, the war room, and the tiny cubby that served as her bedroom, Katrin gave up the idea of finding it and changed into a fresh tunic.  And rather than take Josephine’s well-reasoned advice, she thought some fresh air might do the trick.

 

Varric wasn’t by his tent, nor was the Iron Bull near the forge.  Cassandra had gone off for the afternoon. In fact, the only person who was anywhere to be found was Cullen, and Katrin found herself blushing as she approached him.

 

Somehow, the commander of the forces never seemed quite pleased to see her--she supposed she’d been a bit forward, asking him if he’d taken any vows of celibacy.  Certainly her lady ambassador would have died, had she known. 

 

For a wonder, Cullen greeted her warmly, only stopping to shout orders at his recruits once.  “Lady Trevelyan. I thought Leliana and Josephine would have you cooped up all day.”

 

She laughed ruefully.  “Leliana said my sneezing would annoy her ravens.  And Josie is busy writing letters. I’m a free woman, at least for the next few hours.”

 

He rubbed the back of his neck, as Katrin had noticed he often did when thinking or perplexed.  “Then would you care to walk with me? It is a lovely afternoon.”

 

Smiling up at him, she offered him her hand.  “That sounds perfect.” He looked quickly from her hand to her face, a faint frown beginning between his eyebrows.  “May I take your arm, Ser Rutherford?”

 

“Oh!  Oh. My apologies.  Of course, Lady Trevelyan, but please call me Cullen.  I am no longer a knight.”

 

Katrin tucked her hand into the crook of the elbow he offered, but still saw the shadow that touched his eyes and the slight bitterness in the way he said ‘no longer.’  “Do you regret leaving the Chantry, then?”

 

“Not as much as they warned me I would,” he replied.  “After what I witnessed at Kinloch Hold and then when Kirkwall’s Circle fell, I became...disillusioned.  Mages may be dangerous, but the Chantry’s way of dealing with them was inhumane. Leading your forces has been a welcome change, and rewarding.”

 

“I am glad to hear that.”  Realizing what that must sound like, she hastened to explain.  “Not glad that you suffered, of course, but that you find working with the Inquisition fulfilling.”

 

“I suspected that is what you meant,” he said, his voice almost tender.  “What of you, my lady? You didn’t have much choice in your role.”

 

“It has been a bit much to get used to,” Katrin admitted.  “But there are many looking to us for hope, now. I could not very well deny them the little good I can do.”

 

They were well past the gates of the little village, and by silent agreement they stopped by one of the small ponds that dotted the landscape.  Katrin sank down onto a large rock with a quiet sigh, Cullen hovering near her in concern.

 

“Are you all right, Lady Trevelyan?”

 

She tried to smile, but her nose twitched and she sneezed instead.  “Perfectly fine. Though I misplaced my handkerchief this morning and I’m afraid Josie’s sensibilities haven’t recovered.”

 

Cullen sat down as well.  “I understand this is one of the things one should not say to a lady, but you seem tired.”  He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a handkerchief of his own. “Take mine. Likely yours was made of lace or beaded or some such, but this will do, I hope.”

 

Katrin let out a genuine and very unladylike laugh as she accepted it.  “Maker’s sake, Cullen. Don’t let Vivienne hear you say that, or she’ll insist on my carrying completely useless lacy beaded hankies.”  When her giggles subsided, she added another thought. “And please, call me Katrin. I’ve had so much ‘Herald’ this, and ‘Lady’ that, I’m ready to scream.”

 

“And if you think Josephine’s sensibilities are offended now, you will not want to risk that.”  Cullen stood and offered her his arm, this time without prompting. “My la--Katrin. I should escort you back to your quarters.  Perhaps you should rest, after all.”

 

The walk back was shorter than Katrin would have liked.  Even though they spoke of mundane things, Cullen was a comforting, straightforward presence, albeit one with an unusual fondness for paperwork.  When they parted at the main gate, she offered his handkerchief back to him. “After I wash it thoroughly, of course.”

 

“Keep it for now,” he replied.  “Though I would prefer you were well and did not need one.”

 

Katrin neither knew, nor suspected in the slightest, that in Cullen’s breast pocket at that very moment was a fine white handkerchief, embroidered with violets and the initials KMT.  He had picked it up that morning.


	7. Sleeping Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair chooses his words poorly and lives to regret it.

“You spoil that dog rotten, Anna.  This tent is cramped enough as it is, Mouse needs to sleep outside where he can warn us if something’s coming.”  Alistair folded his arms and tried to look stern, but in Anna’s eyes it was rather a failure. She supposed it was difficult to look imposing when a sleeping Mabari was drooling on one’s lap, but still.

 

“I can’t do that,” she defended her loyal hound.  “Mouse might be all that’s left of my life before the Wardens.  Besides, he’s very warm.”

 

“I’m warm too, you know,” Alistair protested.

 

“Yes, love, but you hate it when I put my hands or feet on you.”  Anna kissed her lover on the cheek and scratched the dog behind his ear.

 

“Because they’re freezing!”

 

“So that’s why Mouse is here!”  The dog in question lifted his head and chuffed sleepily at his mistress.  “He doesn’t mind cold feet.”

 

“Let him sleep at your feet, then.  I slept in the kennels enough at Redcliffe, I won’t have that beast nudging me out of my own bedroll.”

 

Mouse growled very softly at that.  “Now look what you’ve done,” Anna said, wriggling to allow Mouse more room on her side.  “He’s not a beast, he’s a very good boy.”

 

“He’s gone soft, he has.  Just yesterday I saw him watch a rabbit run right across the campsite.  Didn’t even try to chase it.” This time, his scowl did look somewhat forbidding.  “Lazy dog.”

 

Very deliberately, Mouse stood, barked once, and left the tent.  Anna sighed. “You’ve offended him, you know.”

 

“Well,” Alistair snapped, “I don’t think I’ll lose much sleep over offending a dog.”  Anna didn’t argue, but she did take a certain small pleasure in sticking her cold feet on his legs that night.

 

As they were waking the next morning and preparing for the day, Alistair frowned.  “Love, have you seen my socks?”

 

“I thought you put them in your pack.”  She was busy braiding her hair and didn’t notice that he’d upended it on his bedroll.  “I haven’t touched them. When was the last time you washed them, anyway?”

 

“That’s not the point!  I can’t find any of them.”

 

That got her attention.  “All of your socks went missing?  Maybe Wynne took them. She’s a bit more, um, fastidious than the rest of us.”

 

“Unlikely, but would you go ask her?”  Alistair eyed his bare feet. “I would, but I’d rather not risk frostbite.”

 

“Of course.”  Anna finished dressing and slipped outside.  “Alistair? Put your boots on and get out here.  I don’t think Wynne took your socks for washing.”  There was a note of amusement in her voice, and Alistair scrambled to follow.

 

More than a dozen piles of freshly-turned earth littered the campsite.  Alistair groaned and made eye contact with a very self-satisfied Mouse.

 

“I deserved that, didn’t I, boy?  I apologize. You’re not a beast, or lazy, or any of the other things I said.  But do you think you could sleep at Anna’s feet?”

 

Mouse barked very seriously.

 

Alistair rubbed his eyes.  “I’ll take that as a no.”


	8. Nug Rights Advocate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Varric's business ventures goes sideways.

“This caper,” Hawke pronounced as grimly as she could, given the situation, “is officially out of control.  Varric Donnell Tethras, this is all your fault.”

 

“That’s not my middle name, Hawke,” Varric protested.  “You don’t even know what it is, do you?”

 

“Do you know mine?” she retorted.

 

“You wound me, Charlotte Amelia Hawke.  I thought we were friends.”

 

Charlotte gently lifted a sleeping gray nug and carefully put it in a cage.  “I’m going to have to write Bethany a sternly worded letter.”

 

“I wouldn’t blame your sister, Hawke,” Aveline said.  “Varric has a way of sneaking information past just about anyone.  And a way of getting his friends into awkward situations.”

 

“Speaking of which, we’re catching nugs here, Aveline, and you’re going to need to pull your weight.  Hop to it, Guard-Captain, we haven’t got all day.” Varric stuffed a white nug in his pocket and tried to keep the pink one on his shoulder from biting his ear.  

 

“Oh, that’s very funny.”  Aveline looked dubiously at her feet.  “I’m afraid I’ll step on one. Things are bad enough already.  We’re already lost in the caves of the Sundermount, I’m not going to be the reason half the merchandise is crushed.”

 

“Ooh, I don’t think we’re lost,” Merrill put in, stepping nimbly over a pile of droppings with several babies wrapped in her cloak.  “But I’ve never seen a place in the Sundermount where there were puddles of molten rock. Maybe we are lost, after all.”

 

“Varric Armando Tethras, you’d better have a plan.”  Charlotte’s stern tone clashed with the tenderness with which she was tickling her current tiny charge.  “And who asks to have six score nugs imported from Orzammar, anyway?”

 

“Smuggled, technically,” Varric corrected her, causing Aveline to groan in disgust.  “And it’s like you’re not even trying, Hawke. You can do better than that.”

 

“Varric ‘I Swear I’m Not Just Making This Up’ Tethras, that wasn’t an answer.”  Charlotte deposited two more nugs in the cage and wiped her hands on her thighs.  “Aveline, if you’re worried about stepping on them, could you try counting them?”

 

“Thank you, Hawke.”  

 

For a little while, all was quiet save for Merrill’s cooing, the nugs’ squeaking, and Aveline’s counting under her breath.  “Varric ‘I’m Stalling For Time’ Tethras…” Charlotte picked up the last nug, a spirited little brown that squeaked in protest and tried to bite her hand through her glove.

 

“All right, all right.”  Varric brushed off his coat and threw up his hands.  “They’re for...a friend. She wants to start a nug ranch in Kirkwall.  Thinks once the nobility get a taste of it, nug will be the new trend. Crazy, but she paid in advance.”

 

“We’re sending these poor creatures to slaughter?”  Merrill was horrified. “They’re too adorable for that.”

 

“Easy, Daisy.  Nobody’s going to slaughter anything.  Bartrand tried nug-ranching years ago and it didn’t work.  People wanted them as pets, more than anything.”

 

“Well, that’s a relief,” Aveline said.  “But we’ve got six extra nugs now. And likely a few more, unless that one’s just fat.”

 

“All very well and good.”  Charlotte crossed her arms.  “But Varric ‘Nug Rights Advocate’ Tethras here still has to get us out.”

 

“Well…”  Varric scanned the cave.  “Let’s go that way. It looks like there’s less molten rock in that direction.”

 

As Charlotte led the way, Aveline hung behind and prodded Varric.  “Do you even have a middle name?”

 

“No.  Most dwarves don’t.  But let her keep making them up.  Hawke could use a bit of fun in her life.”


	9. A Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mouse the Mabari knows when his mistress needs him.

Anna’s ears were still ringing and her mind was still spinning from the battle at Highever.   _Not a battle,_  she thought.   _A slaughter.  Howe’s men…what could have brought that on?  What slight, imagined or real, could have led to such consequences?_

Her legs ached and her heart was sore.  Duncan had given her a salve for her wounds, but what could ease the pain of losing her family?

Where was Fergus?  If he was safely away, how could she tell him that in one night she’d failed everyone he loved?  If he had been taken by the treacherous arl, how could she go on?

Her hands convulsed, gripping her father’s sword tightly.  After hours of hard fighting, the blisters on her hands had split and blood soaked the grip.  Blinking back tears, she recalled that her mother had admonished her many times for forgetting to wear her gloves.  But it didn’t matter now, and she only prayed that calluses would soon replace the sting.

A soft snuffling at her side reminded her that something from her former life was still there.  A heavy, familiar weight found its way to her lap.  Solid warmth curled up against her, and she spoke for the first time since saying goodbye.

“I know, boy.  It didn’t feel right, leaving Mother and Father that way.  And Oriana and little Oren…I failed them all.  Maker take me, I failed everyone.”

Mouse licked her hand once, and it was enough to break the floodgates wide.  Anna bent over her lap, sobbing harder than she had since she was a child watching her brother ride away from the castle.  “I don’t understand!”  Her voice snagged and broke.  “What am I supposed to do?  How do I just walk away from all this and never know what’s become of my family?”

Presently her tears slowed, and though her throat was raw and her eyes were swollen, the cold grip around her heart had eased just the smallest amount.  “At least I’ve got you, Mouse.  Stay with me, boy?”

Mouse whined very quietly and lifted his head to lick her face.  “That’s right.  We’ll stick together.  I suppose I’m all you’ve got, too.”


	10. A Blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bubbles keeps vigil with Charlotte after Leandra's death.

There had been no funeral.  Leandra’s body, sullied by blood magic, had been burned in the battle against Quentin.  Nothing remained for the Chantry plot. The few friends the Amell family still claimed had long since left, and a wild-eyed Bethany had been escorted none too gently back to the Circle.  All that remained was an empty house and Leandra’s portrait, flanked by two vases of white roses.

 

Charlotte hated the sight of them.  She might have been a noblewoman but Charlotte would always associate the daisies that had grown on their farm with her mother.  Overtaken by a desperate need to act, she tore the two bunches of flowers from their vases and flung them into the fire. Bubbles, who had been quietly watching her from under her desk, stood and joined her before the fireplace.

 

A cold nose pushed itself into her hand, and she let out a slow, shuddering breath.  “She’s gone,” Charlotte whispered, and the dog whined in sympathy. “First Father, then Carver, and now Mother.  Bethany, even, has been taken from me. This fucking Blight and this  _ fucking  _ city.  I cannot lose any more.”

 

The roses withered as the fire sizzled and spat, thick smoke stinging her eyes until she didn’t know if she was crying or not.  Charlotte sank to the floor, burying her face in the Mabari’s neck, brought low by exhaustion and sorrow. She sat there for what could have been hours, watching the flowers blacken and break apart.   _ Just like everything else. _

 

Bubbles seemed to realize his mistress needed quiet and comfort, so he sat still, letting her tears soak into his fur.  When she lifted her head, he moved to lick her face and burrow his snout into her shoulder. “Thank you, boy,” she murmured.  “You’re a blessing, you are.” Still she did not move, and the dog remained with her, loyalty bound to do his duty.

 

Only the sound of the door opening roused them.  “I don’t know what to say, but I am here.” Fenris’ voice was tight, charged with more emotion than Charlotte had heard from him yet.  It loosed some of the rage that had been simmering beneath her grief, to hear him offer sympathies, as if it were that simple.

 

“Am I to blame for not saving her?” she choked, past caring about appearing strong.  This hurt went deeper than the rift between them. “Could I have done more?”

 

“I could say no, but would that help?”  He let the silence stretch out until Bubbles growled a quiet warning.  “You are looking for forgiveness, but I am not the one who can give it to you.”  Charlotte felt a light touch on her hair, but by the time she looked up, Fenris was already gone.

 

“Come on, Bub,” she said, rising to bank the fire.  “I’ll let you sleep on the bed tonight. Maker knows I could use the company.  Tomorrow...well, we’ll handle whatever comes then.”


	11. A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen needs some support while waiting for news of Katrin.

Even though the Inquisition had been all but officially disbanded, Katrin Trevelyan still commanded a certain respect.  When she had almost fallen through the eluvian, covered in blood and a frightening shade of gray, Halamshiral had thrown itself into a frenzy.  Healers, enchanters, and servants scurried through the corridors, bearing potions, salves, linens, and anything else that might help.

 

Within minutes, it seemed as though everyone knew the former Inquisitor’s life hung in the balance.  Her arm was missing, neatly severed just above the elbow. With it had gone her Mark and one of the threats to her life, but plenty still remained.  Scorch marks littered the leather armor she’d worn, and even her blades were nicked and dull. Bull, Vivienne, and Sera could not say how any of it had happened, that Katrin had gone on alone to face the Viddasala and returned unable to speak.

 

Once again trapped at the Winter Palace, Cullen found himself at a loss.  To do anything but wait for a change in his wife’s state was unthinkable, and yet he burned with a need to do something--anything.  He had nearly come to blows with an impossibly pompous healer who had refused him entry to Katrin’s room. Dorian of all people had prevented it, the mage uncharacteristically disheveled and nearly frantic with worry.

 

And so Cullen waited.  He dragged a stool to just outside her door, sat down, and refused to move.  Hours passed, agonizing in their relentlessness. After sunset, Josephine brought him tea and sandwiches, but declined to sit with him.  “I cannot,” she said, her voice thready. “I must hold off the Council.”

 

Others came and went.  By sunrise the next morning, no change had come and Cullen hadn’t slept.  Cassandra arrived, rigid with concern and followed by Ser Barkley. “Cullen,” she began, waving a hand at him before he could respond, “you have not moved in hours.  Go. Stretch your legs, and take this dog with you before he tears apart Madame de Fer’s wardrobe.”

 

He glared at her mulishly and crossed his arms.  “I will not stir until I know my wife will recover.”

 

Unimpressed, Cassandra glared right back.  “The Inquisitor would scold you for not taking care of yourself.  Your Mabari needs you, and you need breakfast and fresh air. I will wait here and I will fetch you if there is any news.”

 

After nearly three years of working with the Seeker, Cullen knew that arguing with her would be fruitless.  Cassandra was right, after all. Katrin would certainly be telling him to eat and rest, were she able to do so.  “Very well. Come along, Ser Barkley. We’ll find something to eat and then we’ll get you outside. I daresay you could use a walk.”

 

The big dog bounded ahead of him, barking excitedly.  For the first time since arriving at Halamshiral, Cullen found himself wanting to smile, but worry for his wife wore it down quickly.  “The Maker has turned his gaze on the Inquisitor, Cullen,” Cassandra offered, her voice soft. “I have faith she will live.”

 

He clapped her on the shoulder, caught without words, then followed the Mabari down the hall and toward the kitchens.  Hardly aware of his surroundings, he passed several courtiers, attendants, and healers, though he could not have said who was who.  Upon reaching the kitchen, he accepted a bundle of biscuits, cold meat, and fruit to take out to the grounds.

 

A formal Orlesian garden was not exactly ideal for a Mabari’s exercise, but Cullen did not feel equal to straying too far.  Ser Barkley did not seem to mind, and even very considerately avoided racing through the flower beds, instead sticking to the grassy paths.  Occasionally the big dog would run up to his master, who would oblige him with a piece of biscuit or a scrap of meat. By the time Cullen had finished his breakfast, the sun had well and truly risen, Ser Barkley had had a drink from a nearby fountain, and was lying on his back near Cullen’s feet.

 

Cullen bent to rub the dog’s belly, remembering how his family’s sheepdog had liked it.  “I’ve neglected you sadly, haven’t I, Ser Barkley? I apologize. You see, your mistress isn’t well and I’m worried about her.”  The dog rolled over and sat up, looking quite intently at Cullen. “She has been hurt, and badly, while protecting others. To be quite honest, I wouldn’t know what to do without her.”

 

Ser Barkley whined sympathetically and laid his head on Cullen’s knee.  “You’ll love her, too,” Cullen continued. “I must have faith, just as Cassandra does.  It is, however, easier when one has a friend to help keep the watch. Will you wait with me, Ser?”

 

The dog stood and solemnly barked.  Cullen had the impression that if he could have managed it, he would have saluted.  “Come, then, we’ll go back now. Once our lady recovers, I’ll introduce you properly, because you’ll have to protect her when I cannot.  And don’t let her tell you she doesn’t need it. Everyone needs someone to look out for them.”

 

Cullen returned to his post, where an apprehensive Cassandra cast a dubious look at Ser Barkley.  “The healers will not appreciate your dog’s presence. He is quite...large. And intimidating.”

 

“That seems rather unimportant,” Cullen said.  “Barks and I are here to keep faith.”


	12. Wolf and Wildcat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela watches Fenris and Hawke work together.

Isabela’s always prided herself on her finesse as a duelist.  So often, one can only count on one’s own self in a fight. She learned that particular lesson the hard way, which is why she’s stuck in Kirkwall without a ship and running around with a crew that’s a little ragtag even by her standards.

 

Not that Hawke asks her along particularly often (not like Fenris or Varric, who seem to be attached to her by some sort of magic), which suits Isabela just fine.  Her time is better spent at the Hanged Man anyway, listening for rumors and taking her pick of partners. The coin isn’t quite as good, but it’s far less dangerous.

 

She reflects on this last point dourly, because she is currently ankle-deep in something she doesn’t even want to think about.  Darktown can never be said to be charming, but in the midst of summer heat it’s unbearable. But the templars and the guards never venture down here if it can be avoided, and so here they are, helping with yet another poor sap’s problem.

 

To keep her mind off what she’s sure is shit in her boots, she studies her companions.  Hawke’s set the pace again, as she tends to do. No matter that it’s really Anders who knows what they’re looking for, Hawke gives orders as naturally as she breathes.  It’s infuriating, but Anders doesn’t seem to mind too much. The idiot would follow Hawke around like a puppy given the chance.

 

Isabela snorts at the idea, which is a mistake in this environment.  Even six-week-old bilge water doesn’t smell this bad. The snort turns into a gag, which she tries to cover with a cough.  It’s no good, and she alternates coughing and gagging in earnest until tears stand in her eyes.

 

“All right, Isabela?”  Hawke’s paused and is looking back at her in concern, and thus doesn’t see the Carta thug coming.

 

Fenris, however, does.  The name suits him. The feral growl he unleashes with the first swing of his greatsword is enough to give the other attackers pause.  The first thug falters, and what might have been a solid blow is only just enough to make Hawke bleed.

 

One wouldn’t know she’d been hurt at all, from the way Hawke draws her blades and finds weak points in her enemies.  Anders scrambles to catch up, positions himself a little better, and clubs one over the head with his staff. Isabela’s determined to do her part, as well.

 

“You, there, with only half an ear!  Can you still hear enough to tell when the whores at the Blooming Rose call you ugly?”  She enjoys this piece of it, the taunting. An enraged opponent is a sloppy opponent, and besides that it’s quite fun, coming up with the insults.

 

However, she picked the wrong one this time.  He drops his knife and instead grabs his bow, nocking an arrow and letting it fly all in the same breath.  Isabela slaps it away but the second shot pierces her shoulder. She screams, more in surprise than pain, but before she can close with him Hawke’s melted out of a shadow and buried her dagger between his ribs.

 

Fenris glows now with the light of his markings and Hawke takes advantage of the dancing light and dazed opponents to make quick, elegant maneuvers around the edge of the melee. Isabela can hardly follow her but for the grunts of pain and cries of terror when she strikes.  When one of the Carta sellswords manages to hit her, it’s more due to luck than any sort of skill. Hawke drops to a knee; Fenris roars as though it’s his own wound. Anders (or maybe at this point it’s Justice, Isabela can’t tell) has a healing spell ready, and soon Hawke is back on her feet, all the fiercer for the blood spilled.

 

They’re a formidable pair, Fenris and Hawke.  They’re a wolf and a wildcat circling each other, building on each other’s strengths, protecting each other’s weaknesses.  And watching them, Isabela feels suddenly lonely. 


	13. Rules Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Fenris attend a dinner party, much to Hawke's discomfiture.

As he escorted her from the drawing room to the great hall, Fenris studied Hawke carefully.  “You seem...uncomfortable.”

 

Charlotte wasn’t about to deny it.  “It’s these damned stays. How in the Void does Isabela manage wearing a corset at all times?  I can’t even handle it for a dinner party!”

 

“Isabela does at least a dozen incomprehensible things in a day, and you’re concerned about her clothing?”  She knew him well enough to know he was laughing at her, even as his hand ran soothingly over her back.

 

“I cannot believe I let Varric talk us into this,” Charlotte mumbled.  “A party. It’s ridiculous.”

 

“I am not complaining.”  She turned to him, her expression skeptical.  “You are radiant tonight, and this has been a pleasant diversion.  If you need additional convincing, de Launcet is known to have an extensive wine cellar.  Perhaps we could explore it later.”

 

“We’ll be poor guests if we do,” she replied, her eyes downcast and her expression demure.

 

Fenris snorted.  “You have little regard for hospitality in your own home.  Do you expect me to believe you have any at all in another’s?”

 

A sly smile crept over her face.  “I accept your challenge. I’ll stay at this party until you convince me to leave.”

 

Fenris muttered something under his breath.  “You’re a madwoman, Hawke. That wasn’t a challenge, but it is now.”

 

The vaulted hall was hung in crimson, likely a nod to the Champion of Kirkwall being present.  Charlotte allowed Fenris to pull out her chair and very primly seated herself. Now that the game was on, she pretended that she wasn’t panicking at the sight of the cutlery and crystal, that she knew what to do when she was offered a basket wrapped in cloth.  Between Varric on her right and Fenris on her left, she was shielded from most prying eyes, but her heart was still pounding and her gown was entirely too restrictive.

 

It seemed to shrink another size when Fenris’ head bent to hers.  “Your breathing is doing fascinating things to that neckline.”

 

“And this neckline is making it impossible to relax even a little,” she growled in response.  “Lord Something-Or-Other will get an eyeful if I try to lean forward even a little.” But the damage was done.  Much as she tried to stop it, a flush of scarlet began to creep up her breast.

 

“Charlotte,” he whispered, and damn his eyes, even hearing just her name from his lips thrilled her, “don’t try to pretend you don’t like this.”

 

“You know perfectly well how much I enjoy your attentions.  But you’ll have to do better than that.” Charlotte bit into her roll daintily, throwing a sidelong glance at her lover.  She was pleased to see his eyes flash.

 

“You’re probably thinking I want to tear that dress from your body.  But you’re wrong.” He didn’t touch her, instead taking a slow sip of his wine.  “I’d much rather leave it on you. Your neck is enticing, and my favorite spot between your shoulder blades is bare.  The sounds you make when I kiss it...well, it wouldn’t be proper to speak of them at dinner.”

 

“And yet here we are.”  Unbidden, the image of them sneaking off to the cellar for activities completely unrelated to wine came to her.  “It’s a pity, but decorum insists that we stay until dessert.”

 

“Whereas the only thing I crave now is between your legs.”

 

That had the desired effect.  Charlotte felt heat flood her cheeks and covered her agitation by patting her mouth with her napkin.  When she’d recovered sufficiently, she quirked an eyebrow. “I am sure that doesn’t taste sweet at all.”

 

Fenris’ finger traced a circle on her upper arm.  “Perhaps not, but your gasps of pleasure are.” Each fell silent as servants removed the bread baskets and placed salads in front of them.  “You have little idea what your voice does to me, especially in the throes of your orgasm.”

 

Varric had been listening.  “Broody, did you just say ‘orgasm’ during a dinner party?”

 

“Andraste’s tits, Varric, keep your voice down!”  Charlotte glared at him over her shoulder.

 

“You two are horrible,” Varric scolded them, clearly torn between disgust and glee.  “I’m going to pretend I don’t know you for the rest of the evening. Have fun, but please don’t get caught.”

 

Fenris lifted Charlotte’s hand to his lips.  “If we’re caught, it’s because we let someone catch us.”  True to his word, the dwarf made no reply. “And since I can think of no one I would want to share you with, I don’t think we’ll be caught.  Now, what was I saying?”

 

“Something about my voice.”  Charlotte had taken advantage of the distraction to regain control of her breathing and pulse.

 

“Oh, yes.  The stuttering little cries when I brush my fingers against you for the first time, the whimper when I pull away, and the throaty moans when I finally put my tongue to your core...it drives me mad, Charlotte.  I can think of little but spreading you across your bed and sinking into you. The taste and sound and feel of you is more than anything I’d previously dreamed.”

 

She realized she’d had a forkful of greens halfway to her mouth for a minute at least, and dropped the utensil in her fluster to reply.  “Oh?” She wished she’d had a wittier response, but Fenris seemed pleased enough.

 

Another servant, or perhaps it was the same one, whisked away her mostly uneaten salad, replacing it with a dish that Charlotte didn’t recognize.  It may as well have been straw, for all she knew. Her focus was given entirely to Fenris.

 

“You are lovelier now than I have ever seen you.”  His words were reverent, though not in any way a Chantry sister would appreciate.  “I cannot wait until we’re alone.”

 

“It’s the gown, Fenris.  Fine feathers and all that.”  She swallowed and reached for her wine.  “Once this comes off, I’m back to my old self.”

 

Fenris seemed completely unruffled.  “I like that idea. The fine lady Amell, out of her lovely dress, turns into the little wildcat men dream of taming.”

 

Charlotte nearly choked.  “That’s rather a mixed metaphor.”  She risked a look at him. “Oh Maker, you’re serious.  I think love’s blinded you.”

 

“I have seen the way Anders looks at you.  And that Crow on the Wounded Coast, not to mention half the party tonight.  Men see your beauty and your ferocity and wish to curb it, to domesticate you.  You would eat them alive.” He smiled lazily. “Personally I think your wildness suits you, but perhaps I am biased.”

 

“There will be no eating,” Charlotte gestured vaguely at her plate, “you’ve seen to that.  And I’d prefer not to think about Anders at the moment.”

 

“As you wish.  We could discuss instead how lovely your mouth is.”  Fenris watched intently as she pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow.  “I believe I already mentioned your neck and your shoulders.”

 

Shaking her head, Charlotte decided it was time to go on the offensive rather than wait for Fenris’ next outrageous statement.  “Is it really that lovely, or are you simply thinking of what I might do with it?” 

 

Infuriatingly, his face remained impassive.  “There’s a thought.”

 

“Do you recall what I did the other morning when you said we hadn’t enough time to make love properly?”  She would not, would not blush, instead choosing to take a bite of whatever mystery she’d been served.

 

“Quite clearly.”  There. Fenris’ voice, normally smoke and honey, had taken on a shade of raggedness.  Charlotte decided to press the advantage.

 

“And do you recall what I was wearing under my skirt at your place the other night?”  He swallowed audibly and Charlotte struck a third time. “I’m wearing it again tonight because I know how much you liked it.”

 

_“_ Festis bei umo canavarum _,”_ Fenris growled.  “I thought I was supposed to be enticing you.”

 

Charlotte favored him with a dazzling smile.  “I changed the rules. Now, I think I see dessert coming, and since I’ve distracted you thoroughly, I think I’ll eat yours as well.”


	14. Not-Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party discovers veilfire. Sera is not impressed.

“Here we are,” Katrin announced, gesturing unnecessarily at the cave’s entrance.  “Everyone in one piece? Anyone need healing?”

 

“Yes to the first, no to the second, Lady Trevelyan.”  Blackwall readied his sword and shield and cast a pointed look at Sera, who had been trailing behind picking daisies to braid into a chain.  “And I think we’re full up on jars of bees, as well.”

 

Sera’s first response was to blow a loud raspberry in Blackwall’s direction.  Before she could speak up, however, Solas cut in smoothly. “Are you quite certain this is it?  I do not feel any particular disturbances in the Veil.” A second, even louder raspberry quickly followed, whatever comment Sera had originally planned left to wither on the vine.

 

Katrin checked her map.  “The report was that an odd object was found here.  We don’t know for certain that it’s connected to the Fade.  It could simply be something weird.”

 

“Weird,” Sera muttered.  “Don’t have enough of that yet, do we?”

 

“Aye,” Blackwall agreed.  “The Inquisition has attracted more than its share of unusual folk.  Doesn’t that worry you?”

 

“That’s why I keep you around, Ser Blackwall.”  Katrin’s tone was light. “In strange times and strange company, one can count on a Grey Warden.  Come on, let’s investigate. Solas, if you would?”

 

“Certainly, Herald.”  With that, the apostate mage channeled a small amount of magic and the tip of his staff began to glow, casting odd elongated shadows on the damp stone walls.

 

“Thank you.  I’ll take point, Solas next, then Ser Blackwall, then Sera.  Weapons ready?” Katrin patted the satchel on her hip as though reassuring herself that she had plenty of potions, then drew her knives with a slight rasp of metal.

 

Their footsteps started out muffled, then grew to echo as the chamber broadened and deepened.  Once they were well and truly inside, a faint blue glimmer resonated from the rocky walls, celestial patterns that shifted and broke as the magelight flickered.  An ancient brazier was mounted on a pillar, next to which sat a brass globe. Katrin approached it, taking her tinderbox from her pocket as she did.

 

She struck the flint twice, but neither spark had any effect on the brazier.  Sera snorted. “Too damp. Whoever put this here’s a tit, right?”

 

“It does seem odd,” Katrin said slowly.  “But I’m sure this was deliberate.”

 

“I am sure it was.  No ordinary spark could light this, it is for veilfire.”  Solas’ eyes were narrow  as he stepped around Katrin.  “It requires a certain type of magic.”  Not bothering to explain further, he focused more magic on the brazier, which burst into viridian flame.

 

Katrin’s green eyes reflected the torch Solas now held aloft.  “That is...fascinating. What is its purpose? What special properties does it have?  Can any mage learn to use it?”

 

Blackwall nudged Sera.  “Five silver says the lady Herald works it into her potion-making somehow.”

 

“You’re on, Beardy.”

 

Katrin snorted in disgust, but Solas’ expression didn’t change, except to perhaps grow slightly more sour.  “It reveals things that were hidden. There may be runes here. We should look around.”

 

“Give it here,” Sera demanded.  “My hands are as cold as frig, I’ll carry it.”

 

“Sera, no,” Katrin began, but too late.  Sera had already lunged for the torch, taking Solas by surprise and wrenching it out of his grasp.

 

“It matters little,” Solas assured her, sounding almost amused.  “It is only like fire in appearance.”

 

The third raspberry Sera blew was even more impressive than the second.  “Bloody useless frigging thing. Not even hot. Someone else take this stupid not-fire and let’s get out of here, yeah?”


	15. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra collects her thoughts after the explosion at the Conclave. Varric tags along.

Cassandra knelt before the makeshift altar, the Chant she’d recited since she was a child spilling from her lips in a torrent.  Prayer was her refuge, where she retreated in moments of fear. As ever, the words brought her comfort, but so with much in doubt, Cassandra knew more than faith was required.

 

The terror at the Conclave wasn’t just an explosion.  The sky had torn open, demons walked among them. Divine Justinia was dead.  The only survivor was a young woman, thrown from the Fade and knocked unconscious by the blast.  The strange mark on her hand told them nothing and yet it spoke volumes.

 

A Seeker of the Truth was bound to serve the Chantry, to sift meaning from the ashes--literally in this case.  Cassandra shuddered and pushed the morbid thought to the firmly-locked vault of her mind. A Seeker was objective, practical.  The survivor, a minor noble of the Free Marches, might know something. A Seeker was prepared. As she mentally reviewed the questions she would ask, she hung her sword at her hip and donned her armor.  That was where she would begin.

 

The little village of Haven hummed with activity, but it wasn’t right.  It was pitched too high in anxiety, cast in the greenish light of what Cassandra simply thought of as the Breach.  She strode purposefully between houses and carts, her thoughts fixed on Katrin Trevelyan. 

 

Small wonder, then, that she failed to notice the dwarf tailing her.  In the mess that surrounded them, Cassandra had more or less forgotten that she’d brought Varric Tethras along.  And so she let herself into the Chantry and down to the cellar, unaware of her follower until she was standing at the door to Katrin’s cell, rusted key in hand.

 

“Seeker, are you sure about this?”

 

She whirled, quicker than thought, and the tip of her sword came within an inch of the blasted interloper’s throat.  “Is that a question you should be asking?”

 

“Easy, easy!”  Varric backed up a few paces, his hands held aloft and palms facing her.  “I’m not here to step on your toes. You’re tense, Seeker, a blind nug could see it.  Not that I blame you, this shit is all kinds of weird.”

 

“Mind your tongue, Master Tethras,” Cassandra snapped.  “Need I remind you that it was your friend who began all of this?”

 

He shook his head.  “I told you the whole story, Hawke couldn’t have known what would happen.  This is too big for one woman, and I mean that in more than one way. You need a second set of eyes and ears, Seeker.  That’s all I’m offering.”

 

After a moment’s furious thought, Cassandra thought she saw his point and sheathed her sword.  “Very well. You’re with me as I question our prisoner, but you’ll do as I say. Understood?”

 

“Just as you say, Seeker.”  Varric grinned at her as he stuck his hands in his pockets.  “You won’t regret this.”

 

Cassandra groaned in disgust, already certain that she would, in fact, regret it.  “Thank you, Master Tethras. Now be quiet.”


	16. Sticks and Staves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A game of fetch gone wrong.

Anna whistled two sharp notes, reveling in the sunlight and fresh air of the shore of Lake Calenhad.  Mouse, likewise enjoying the afternoon, leapt up from his spot near the dock and ran to his mistress. He skidded to a halt in front of her and let loose a series of joyful barks before sitting down and cocking his head attentively.

 

Oghren, previously dozing by the fire, sat up and belched.  “Did you have to do that? That dog’s so loud, the mages in that tower are probably wondering who summoned a demon.”  He scrubbed a dirty hand through his beard. “Some of us were trying to catch a nap.”

 

“My apologies, Oghren,” Anna twinkled, hefting a large stick.  “But Mouse has been a very good dog today, and it’s been a long time since I’ve played fetch with him.”  The dog wagged his stump of a tail eagerly, his mouth open in a big, slobbery smile. “Look at that, he’s salivating at the idea.”

 

“See to it he drools quietly,” the dwarf grumbled, and lay back down.

 

“I don’t see why you care,” Alistair commented from his spot on the dock, where he was rinsing his socks.  “Your snoring’s enough to drown out a dozen barking Mabari.” Oghren rose again long enough to glare balefully, but seemed to decide against further argument.

 

“Come on, boy,” Anna told Mouse.  “Ignore them. You deserve a little fun.”

 

With Mouse at her heels, she left most of the party at the campsite and headed toward the edge of the woods, where Morrigan had earlier disappeared in search of elfroot, felandaris, and other herbs she’d said she needed.  Once Anna judged herself a safe distance from houses, trees, sleeping dwarves, and grumpy golems, she sent the stick sailing off.

 

As intelligent, tough, and fierce as Mabari could be, they were still dogs.  Mouse was no exception, and with a word from Anna, went tearing after the stick.  He returned triumphant, happily panting, and for a good half hour Anna pretended that there was no Blight, no archdemon to be killed, and that she and her hound were simply free for an afternoon.

 

When her arm tired, she sat down in the grass and scratched Mouse behind the ears.  The dog, however, had not yet had enough of the game and picked up the stick again, whining for her to throw it again.

 

“Oh, all right,” Anna said as she stood and brushed off her legs.  “Just a few more, but then we have to cook.” She reached down for the stick, straightened, and flung it toward the trees, toward the exact spot where Morrigan had just returned from her venture into the forest.

 

The seemingly implacable witch apparently wasn’t prepared for a charging Mabari.  Her eyes widened and she dropped her pack to draw her staff. When the stick hit her arm and bounced off, Mouse couldn’t change course quickly enough and collided with Morrigan, drawing a loud and undignified grunt from her.  She lost her balance, flailed helplessly, and fell backward while simultaneously letting go of her staff. Anna wasn’t sure if she was simply surprised or unwilling to hurt the dog.

 

Whatever Morrigan’s reason, Mouse considered one stick as good as another and snatched up the staff between his jaws before rocketing back to Anna.  “Drop that, you blasted beast!” Morrigan snarled from the ground. “I’ll not cast with a soggy staff because some clumsy cur hasn’t the brains to tell the difference between a weapon and a toy!”  The witch quickly regained her feet and gave chase before Anna could warn against it.

 

Mouse, pleased with the new game, shot off in the direction of the campsite, leaving Anna and Morrigan to scramble after him.  “Once we catch up,” Anna panted, “don’t run after him again.”

 

They reached the camp, where they found Mouse leaping happily around Shale while Wynne tried to cajole him into letting go of Morrigan’s staff.  “You miserable dog,” Morrigan said with a sneer. “Drop that at once, do you hear me?” Mouse cheerfully ignored her, now racing between Wynne and Alistair, who was pink with laughter.

 

Anna whistled the same two sharp notes, twice in rapid succession.  Upon hearing them, Mouse returned to his mistress and sat attentively before her.  “Good. Now, give Morrigan back her stick.” The Mabari obeyed promptly and went back to Anna for celebratory pets, which she lavished upon him as was his due.

 

“It’s covered in slobber.”  Morrigan looked at the staff in distaste.  “Keep better control of that hound in the future.”

 

“Morrigan,” Alistair wheezed through his amusement, “didn’t you say you understood animals?  Surely you know not to chase a dog with a toy!”


	17. Green Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris tries to describe Charlotte.

“Tell me more about her,” Tiria pleads, eager for another story. The small elven mage has been following Fenris for several days now, ever since he killed the slavers who had taken her from her clan. He’ll return her to them soon, but a twelve-year-old girl has a capacity for talking that Fenris found he was not sufficiently prepared to handle.

“Those stories will only give you nightmares,” he says after a long pause. “The Champion of Kirkwall fought to protect people from abominations, demons, and worse.”

“Then what’s she like?” Tiria was not to be deterred. “You know her! Is she pretty?”

“She’s beautiful.”

“That’s all?” The girl scoffs. “All the stories I heard said that. What color was her hair? Her eyes? Is she short or tall? Does she have tattoos? What--”

Fenris closes his eyes to guard against the rush of memory. “Dark hair. Green eyes. Taller than you, but shorter than me. No tattoos. That’s enough.”

He can sense her pout and regrets how brusque he’s been. It is easy enough to explain the physical presence of Charlotte Hawke in simple words, but she is far greater than he can describe. He feels like a fool, trying to put into words the catlike grace with which she moves. How she can slip unnoticed through a crowd or command the attention of an entire guard. That yes, her eyes are green but their depths carry the sorrow of losing her entire family.

It’s no use. He’ll never be able to articulate how her unbound hair slipped through his fingers like watered silk, that the break in her nose she was always so sensitive about only endeared her to him. That the shape of her, held in his embrace, made him feel as though the jagged parts missing might not matter after all. And her voice? Whether it was an avenging cry for the fallen or the gentle laugh meant only for him, it was a silver jolt of lightning against a black sky.

He cannot, cannot capture the whole of her. And selfishly, he will keep what he can to himself.


	18. A Day in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trials and tribulations of Knight-Captain Rylen in the Western Approach.

It started early, but then it always did.

The Western Approach wasn’t an easy place to live, Cullen had warned him of that. At the time, Rylen had shrugged it off. The keep would hold off the worst of the dust, wind, and sun, he reasoned. Surely it wouldn’t be so bad.

As he woke, Rylen cursed the Approach, himself, and the Inquisitor, in that order. Poison fog was one thing and easily avoided, but Venatori could not be sidestepped in the same manner. Those aside, one never quite grew accustomed to waking up to the shriek of a high dragon. Why Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan was studying the blasted creature was a mystery to him, and an extremely annoying one at that.

At least the varghests had been cleared out of the well, even though it still wasn’t safe to use. The echoing noises those beasts made had been downright unsettling. And the darkspawn! Where were the bloody things coming from? Tactical significance or no, this place was about as pleasant as a quillback spine in one’s boot.

Finished with his early morning curses, Rylen rolled off his cot. He pushed the oilcloth off his pitcher of water and splashed some on his face before drinking the rest. It was lukewarm, but at least it wasn’t dusty. Likely breakfast would be similar, but certain other necessities required tending first.

He scowled at himself in the tiny mirror he kept. His face was still dirty and his beard growth could at least have had the decency to be even. With a sigh, he resolved that once he’d taken care of the day’s business, he’d hike down to the creek for a wash.

As he left his quarters (a fancy name for little more than two sheets of canvas blocking off a corner), he noticed the extra flurry of activity in the keep. That could mean just one thing–the Inquisitor would arrive later that day. He sighed in relief. Perhaps that would mean the end of the dragon, and the end of the unnatural screeches he heard every morning. With his luck, though, it was just as likely to mean more quillback intestines.

In the meantime, troops still needed to train. Out in the early morning sun, he drilled former Templars and Wardens alongside refugees and farmers’ sons, stopping here and there to correct a stance or demonstrate a technique. Cullen had sent new instructions designed to combat Corypheus’ forces and requested an update and Rylen saw no reason to delay. With a break for lunch, the afternoon was given over to reconnaissance, where at least they were out of the worst of the sun.

Harding and the other scouts had done well, he thought as the young woman marked his map with where she thought old quarries and caches might be found. Rylen made a mental note to inform the Inquisitor of a certain entrance to what looked like an old prison, the only remaining place likely to house darkspawn, Venatori, and other nasty things.

Dinner was nicer than usual. Not that anyone ever would tell the Inquisitor, but the cooks tended to try a little harder when she was around. Whatever the reason, Rylen found himself sopping up beef gravy with a crust of bread. Odd, though, that the lady Inquisitor and her companions hadn’t yet arrived.

Rylen shook off the thought. They were a capable bunch. Likely they’d stopped to dispatch some bandits, kill some darkspawn, or gather herbs. Cullen’s last note had also included a line about the Inquisitor’s ability with potions, though he’d referred to her by her first name. He snickered at the memory. Trust Rutherford to fall for the only woman who worked harder than he did, he thought.

Still sniggering, he gathered his towel and some other small articles, making his way down to the creek for a much-needed bath. Dust may have been a given in the Western Approach, but Rylen was still fighting hard on that front. He judged that there was still an hour or so left of good light, which meant there would be time to rinse out his tunic and breeches as well.

The fennecs and quillbacks he saw along the way were only too happy to avoid him, which suited Rylen. Though he carried a knife with him, he’d left his broadsword and shield back in his bunk, a choice he sorely regretted when a blood-curdling shriek split the air just before he reached the pool favored for bathing. Not only that, but he’d chosen to leave his armor at the keep. Only someone with his luck, he reflected glumly, would go for a wash and end up investigating strange yells.

The first shout was followed by a second, this one much lower and rougher. Someone was gasping for air, and rustling suggested that there was a struggle going on. Rylen dropped his bundled towel and drew his knife, moving slowly along the little path until a sudden splash and subsequent burbling goaded him to action.

Springing around the final bend, he roared, hoping to startle the aggressor and give his victim a chance to flee. Instead he nearly fell flat on his face when he took in the strange spectacle before him.

Two men were wrestling, yes. He’d been correct in surmising that much. While one was much larger than the other, and the smaller one had clearly just been dunked in the pool, Rylen could tell at a glance that neither was terribly unhappy about it. In fact...oh, Maker’s teeth. He froze, trying to look anywhere but at the two men who he now realized were the Inquisitor’s companions, the Tevinter mage and the Qunari mercenary. Both of whom were extremely naked, and, to all appearances, rather enjoying themselves. The mercenary even waved cheerfully.

Rylen decided to retreat to the keep. His bath could wait.


	19. Correspondence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric writes to Hawke.

Hawke— **  
**

Thanks for your last letter, it’s good to know Fenris hasn’t changed much and that you’re all still in one piece.

I’m not sure how much I can put into a letter.  By now, almost everyone knows that Haven was sacked by Corypheus and his legions of doom and that somehow, Lady Trevelyan survived.  The first time, I think most of us were willing to believe that it was simply luck that pulled her through, but now that she’s done it again, even I’m starting to wonder.  One way or another, they’ve named her Inquisitor.  Gave her a fancy sword and everything, not that she uses it.

Other things are worrying us.  All the Grey Wardens in Ferelden have vanished, with the exception of one of our own, a fellow named Blackwall.  There’s no word from Weisshaupt and strange rumors are coming from the Western Approach.  Between the red lyrium, Corypheus, and the rebel mages, I’m scared for you and for Sunshine.  Send her somewhere safe, please.  I know you can’t stay in one place too long, but she might be all right in Starkhaven.  Choir Boy always had a soft spot for her, you know.  If he hadn’t joined the Chantry...well, water under the bridge, I suppose.

Speaking of old friends, Cullen inquired after Aveline.  She won’t return my letters but if you hear from her, let me know.  

I’m writing this from the Exalted Plains, where we’ve been camped for a week.  The Inquisitor has been working with the Dalish here, trading favors in hopes of securing their help.  Earlier today we herded a golden halla (yes, you read that right) back to its clan, which earned us some goodwill, I think.  I would have liked Daisy to see it.  Probably would have followed her around and saved us the trouble.

Bianca’s been getting a lot of attention.  What with bandits, demons, and wolves, we hardly have a moment to breathe, but the Inquisitor keeps going.  You’d like her, I think.  She reminds me a bit of Sunshine at times.  Always willing to believe the best of others but ready to fight at the drop of a hat.  Good qualities to have in a friend.

It’s late and our new friend from Tevinter is in charge of cooking tonight.  I’d better make sure nothing burns or the Seeker will be miserable.

Stay out of trouble, Hawke.  Fenris, since I know you’ll read this, try to keep Hawke from doing anything too dangerous.

—Varric

P.S.  The Tale of the Champion was a huge hit here.  You’ll be mobbed if you ever show your face around the Inquisition.  Don’t get any ideas.


	20. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I had a plan, and there wasn't a dog." Katrin wonders what Cullen meant by that.

“Cullen?”  Dawn light played over her face, catching gold on her dark lashes and turning her skin rosy.  Though he’d woken next to her dozens of times, Cullen doubted he’d ever tire of the sight. His wife (he could still scarcely believe it) stretched and smiled, her eyes still closed.  “I know you’re awake.”

 

He laughed softly, gathering her into his arms and kissing the top of her head.  “How could you tell?”

 

Katrin giggled in response and snuggled against him, all mussed hair and sleepy warmth.  “You snore.”

 

“I shall have to take your word on that.”

 

“What, no argument?” she teased, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.  “You must have slept well.”

 

“I did,” he replied, kissing her again.  “I credit my lovely wife for that.”

 

She seemed to blush at that, though between the pink-tinged light and her drowsiness, it was difficult to tell.  Her eyes opened and she propped herself up on her elbows to look him in the face. “May I ask you something?”

 

“Anything, dearest.”

 

“When you asked me to marry you, you said you had a plan.  What was it?”

 

“I had several plans,” Cullen confessed.  “And as I said, none of them involved a dog.”  Ser Barkley, likely sensing he was being spoken of, snorted in his sleep and went back to his doggy dreams.  “Most of them involved the garden at Skyhold and a ridiculous speech. I even thought about taking you back to the pond in Haven, or writing to your family.”

 

Katrin covered her smile with one hand.  “Bringing my family in would have resulted in disaster somehow, so I’m glad you skipped that.  You had a speech?”

 

“It wasn’t a good one, I’m afraid.  I tried to talk to Varric about it but he claimed he couldn’t help me.  He said I needed to find my own words.” Cullen groaned and pulled a pillow over his head.  “Maker’s breath, he knows I’m no good at that sort of thing.”

 

Taking the pillow back, Katrin leaned in to kiss him.  “Would it be easier if I gave you the speech I was planning?”

 

He squinted at her in disbelief.  “You were going to ask me to marry you?”

 

“Not exactly!  I just thought perhaps I should have something to say, should you ever ask.”  Katrin grinned at him sheepishly. “Though I think we both know nothing went according to plan.”

 

“According to plan, no.  But I’m quite happy with how things turned out.”  Cullen squeezed his wife a little tighter, remembering the times that he’d been afraid he might lose her, and the words he’d once agonized over spilled out.  “Ever since you smiled at me across the war table, it’s always been you. It was you who showed me I was stronger than lyrium, and it was you who reminded me what beauty was.  I love you for your courage, your kindness, your curiosity, and your faith. I’d like to remind you of that every day, if you’ll let me.” He met her eyes again and was shocked to see tears gathering at the corners.  “I’m sorry, I know it’s dreadfully clumsy. Please don’t cry, dearest.”

 

She sniffed and quickly dabbed at her eyes.  “That was lovely and these are happy tears.” Her smile was a trifle watery, but her face was brilliant with emotion.  “I have never met someone so dedicated to doing good. I admire the passion you put into everything you do, whether it’s training drills or kissing.  Your honesty has meant everything to me and I love you better each day.” Katrin looked down, suddenly shy. “Does this mean we’re getting married again?”

 

“Maker, no,” Cullen responded.  “My sister is still furious that we had one wedding without her.  If we had a second and she wasn’t there I don’t think she’d ever speak to me again.”

 


End file.
